Poems

Gold Rush

Haven’t you been told?
California’s full of-


He left, and rode into the west

at an even pace,

carrying the sunlight and the kitchen table 

and the bed and the front porch with him, 


and passed out of memory 

into the mountains and beyond the plains,

where shadows are long

and nothing is named.


His horse joined the mustangs 

on the desert’s edge,

reaving dirt from the earth 

in front of every thunderstorm;


at the end he remembered 

burying his face into her hair;

under the light-years

it was enough to be real.

Offering

Is that your wish, then?
To break bread, as they say,
in the clearing
at the end of the path?

You wanted the words of Christ
in red,
and they were written in blood
across these lands.

So if two or three are gathered
in your name,
who is there
in their midst?

No matter.
Sins of the father
need not pass on,

and grace is still sufficient.

As I’ve seen two or three
broken by a word
or by deceit or by things unsaid,
I’d yet give some years of my life
to have them all here;
aye, to have you all here…

You’d be surprised how much you forget,
how it all falls away like rain
off a barn roof,

if you’d stop to find yourselves
again, close as you can,
in your mother’s kitchen,
in the field with your dog,

or sharing a basket
in sunfall
under the cottonwood.

So then,
will ya not wait for me,
and I for you?

Waves

Lapping in compound water-breaths
against your feet,
a cycle of liquid moving
in reciprocal song on skin

with sand that susurrates
against a tidal rhythm
of seconds, minutes, hours, days, years…

I see you, sitting there.
So what, then, do you feel?

Do you feel
the pulse of creation?
Do you hear
the voices of lovers past?
Do you drink deep
the roil of the turning stars?
Do you sing
the coming of the fresh and crying dawn?

These things are not for me to know,
for I see nothing and everything all at once.

All I know is
when I stumbled upon this beach,
and wound my way around the wreckage,
I found a path made of your footprints.

Invigor 13:83

​Passion is a discontinued brand. 

Yes?
Can you give me some agreement on a Saturday night?
Can I get an AMEN from the front row,
and possibly a HALLELUJAH from the back? 

Say you all so? 

Now goddamn stand and speak, the lot of you. 

Stand, and be counted, and hold thyself not a hypocrite,
for you wander not in the land of Sodom or Gomorrah;
you are made of flame and pulse and must break yourself
on the rocks of the liquid shore. 

Cry foul,
cry pardon,
cut loose,
cut low; 

let slip the dog days of summer
out the still winter of thine own blood,
for you are always treading the plains of milk and honey;
and I have seen the future ripe, and full, 

and for what you want, 

I say surely you shall not perish,
but rise,
rise in shaking ecstasy at the light of dawn. 

Now goddamn stand and speak. 

Midnight Exigent

Now on the keys of this machine
you rest your hand,
the blinking space of the first code-line
mocking your furrowed brow.
Children run past, brushing your knee.

Laughter.

The scent of rain and smoke invades,
and is lost.

A flash of hair wreathed in sunset,
a pickup truck,
a dog licks your palm.

You are in love.
You are alone.
You are watching your mother open her presents.
You are leaving on the 9:40 flight.

(Was it on a beach? Or a dirt road?
The waves… were they water? Or wheat?
Was it my father’s voice, or my daughter’s hand?
I can’t seem to– wait! Her kiss! Was it?
What did I want to… be? Who?)

You are leaving on the 9:40 flight,
under the weight of such a wild and particular gift
from the universe.

And a clock is such a heavy thing
compared to lovers
in a dance entwined…
or to the boy.

Was there a boy? You’re almost sure of it-
in a bike helmet and a bedsheet cape,
thrusting a wooden sword,
crying in defiance welcome
against the spilled-out midnight sky,

Now drain your whiskey,
and admire the slow burn in your belly
as you say “Yep, coulda been…”,
only to hear the other old men fire back
“Aw,  bullshit!”;
because you know,
somewhere,
they’re pulling at the same strings–

as beside the same still waters,
thy cup runneth over.

Knighthood

Meaning, and purpose. Why?

Sunbreak. Starfire.
Endless.

Some seek the fat of the land
to fill the table,
and some seek the horizon.
Did I tell you the one
about the warrior
who fell for the angel?

Yet on this small sphere,
where sand gets caught
in the grinding gears,
and the report is due by Friday,
and the soccer game
and the baby shower
and the static
and the robbery and the stabbing,
and the lawn across the street;
your neighbors who kneel in church
crushed by obligation and gilt,
this is where
we build our seconds
upon seconds upon seconds
around anxiety
until our blood vibrates
from dawn to dusk.

And so we forget
the girl, pointing up
at the sparkling infinity black,
asking “What is that one?
What is THAT one?”

We forget
the boy, stick in hand,
blanket draped over shoulders,
shouting in triumph
“The dragon is dead!
Did you see? Did you see?”

And we forget
the warrior,
standing next to
the angel lying in bed,
a beautiful atrocity
watching him hold the past
and the future,
watching them lock eyes,
watching him think
for the first time,
Maybe… I can do this.

Garden

“I’m gonna get my mom flowers for her birthday.”

The little one I’m watching for the evening
is telling me her secrets
as we drive home in the summer heat.

“From where?”
I’m curious.

“From my garden.
That’s where the flowers grow!”

“They do?”

“Yes! And love.
I’m going to give her love.”
She turns her palms up, imploring.
“That’s where the flowers grow.”

“I had no idea.”

She brushes the bundle of peonies
against my ear;
the scent of a mild sweetness
politely invades my nostrils.

“Where is my grandpa?”

Her grandmother
continues gazing out the window.
She was born on the other side of the world.
“He go to see God.”
As if it were a road trip.

The little one
looks out her own window.
“Oh.”

(A day before he passed,
my own grandfather opened his eyes,
cognizant,
searching for a window.
The blinds were shut.
“I don’t want to go.”

“Why not?”

“Because.
I know I’ll never see her again.”

She had passed
a few years before.)

We tell our children
there are no such things as monsters.

The little one clears her throat.

Raucous stormclouds gather in rising fists
towards heaven.
The heat outside is hell.

“The storms are spirits!”

“What?”
I wasn’t aware of this.

She leans in to tell me her secret.
“The storms… are all made of spirits.”

She points
at the approaching immensity
of water and air
bringing gifts of life and of fire.

She whispers,
“That’s where the thunder grows.”

Paladin

Years later,
he feels the vial
against his chest
that holds
the only fragment of lightsong
given freely to him.

At night, sometimes,
he drifts
to a dead and thankful sleep,
as it melts,
the glass unvitrified,
the sand photonic
hourglassing inside him.

Always,
the next morning
it is whole,
emanating the piece
of the light
of the heart
of the hand
that sought to clasp his;
and even to raise him up
out of darkness
everblack.

Shaking his head,
he pushes forward,
raising his shield;

the demon is already swinging.

Rising Sign

So,
I do not think
any longer should wonder
be entertained
in this waking dream
as we apart
seek that bridge that spans aeons
and even stellar cradles.

I have figured it
in the alchemy of
quantum entanglement,
on the blackboard of the heart,
inside the mandala of time.

Listen,
for water seeks to give.
Waves throw themselves
on the shore of the land.
Rain falls to the skin of the earth,
liquid seeking the embrace
of the deep
and sanctuary of the bedrock;
and roots to drink it,
feeding the hungry pulse of life.

Water gives; so what is water
without a heart-receiver
but only a universal solvent?

Into water one may throw
infinite strikes;
ever will it resume its shape.
Onto water one may project
mountains of rage,
and it will only reflect
what you already know.

Fire,
fire is simpler still,
and only seeks a hearth
with the fuel of an endless heartbeat.

So,
while the free winds
strike their vastness upon the sky,
and paint what they will,
a vessel of water and flame
would be only placed at the altar
before the ancient tree
whose roots grow deep
into the sod and stone…

…combusting growth into dreams
and gifts eternal and warmth in winter;

and silently,
offering a song of praise
for the birth
of earth on earth.